


Healing (compare to chapters 17 - 19 in full version)

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Idiots in Love, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Therapy, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-12-19 23:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11908029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: "Do you feel comfortable telling me what happened to you?""Yes," Sherlock says. "I'm not ashamed.""That's half my job done, then," Dr. Reed says with a laugh. "Is there anything specific you want to work on during our phone calls?""Yes. As a result of my—incarceration, I've formed an unhealthy attachment to my best friend, John."





	1. Chapter 1

~*~

**Friday, 12 April 2013**

Friday morning, Sherlock stays in bed until John leaves for work. John texts him an hour later and asks _can we talk when I get home_ to which Sherlock doesn't respond, although his fingers hover over the keypad of his phone for too long before he finally switches off the screen and sets it on the bedside table.

He goes downstairs to take a shower, and make tea, which he then takes back upstairs. He sits down at the desk in the bedroom. The whole room is depressingly character-free, considering that John slept in it for eighteen months. Sherlock had been expecting a John-ish aura to pervade the room, a golden, cozy-warm net in which to nurse his bruised body and heart, but whatever presence John had in this room is gone.

The only furniture left in it when Sherlock took up sleeping there was his own bed, a floor lamp, a small bedside locker, and the desk with chair. A few days after he came back, Sherlock had pushed aside the sliding doors on the closet to find stacks of boxes. In some, Sherlock found his own clothes, randomly and haphazardly stored—pants mixed with belts, unmatched socks tucked here and there, a book or two thrown in. The rest of the boxes held Christmas decorations, and other detritus of life that people pack away in boxes until they're needed.

At fifteen minutes to ten, Sherlock starts pacing around the bedroom. With John at work, he _could_ go downstairs, but he's afraid he'll go to John's room, fall into his bed, and weep, so he stays upstairs.

When the phone rings three minutes before ten, he snatches it up and stares at the unknown number flashing on the screen, takes a deep breath, and answers the phone.

~*~

Dr. Andy Reed spends at least thirty minutes telling Sherlock who he is, what happened to him, and why he became a therapist. He was captured by the Taliban in 2004, and held for three hundred and ninety-four days during which he experienced physical and psychological torture and extreme deprivation. When he was finally rescued, he was invalided out of the army and sent home with a diagnosis of PTSD where he promptly failed to adjust to civilian life.

His symptoms were the same as thousands of other soldiers who came home from war, but the therapists he saw _only_ addressed the symptoms—anxiety, insomnia, tremors, flashbacks, panic attacks, weight gain or loss, lack of libido, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, addiction. None of them dealt with what had _caused_ the PTSD. Dr. Reed needed to understand what had happened to him, and heal his shattered psyche.

We all have an inner monologue, Dr. Reed says, an idea of _self_ , the _ego_ of Freud's writings—the person who we see as our most essential self. A soldier diagnosed with PTSD suffered the same symptoms as Dr. Reed, but unlike those soldiers, his experience hadn't just _changed_ him, it had _rewritten who he was_ at his most basic self. Like an infant, he had been dependent upon his tormentors for everything, including whether he lived or died. Dr. Reed's autonomy, as a human, and as a man, was completely stripped away. He'd gone to war thinking himself an average bloke, maybe a bit braver than average, a man who believed in fighting for Queen and Country, but during his captivity, he had routinely been cowardly, weak, even cruel—if he could direct the focus of his tormentors towards another prisoner, he did it. Every single time.

"That's the insidiousness of torture," Dr. Reed says. "Nobody holds up under torture. It continuously peels away layer after layer of your personality, and every time you think you've hit the bottom, like this is the absolute _weakest_ you can get—your torturers come up with something to prove you wrong. Think of your essential self as a hard drive where your experiences are stored. Sometimes you go in and delete a few files, maybe run some diagnostics, but it stays roughly the same. Torture _rewrites_ your hard drive—that inner monologue goes quiet. How do you heal a broken mind when it doesn't remember who it was before? I had been completely dehumanized and emasculated. I tried to tell myself that just because I'd begged, or wasn't _stoic_ or, even worse, couldn't _soldier on_ it didn't mean I was less of a man. Except, it felt exactly like that."

It was _that_ complete disconnect from himself and other human beings that pushed Dr. Reed to become a therapist. He wanted to fill that hole in the veteran support system. If he couldn't find his own therapist, he could at least be there for someone else.

"And now here I am," he says at last.

As Dr. Reed speaks, Sherlock finds himself nodding his head in agreement, even as he cringes away from such a frank discussion of something so terrible, so beyond the average human's understanding. It's already half ten before Dr. Reed finishes his story.

"Do you feel comfortable telling me what happened to you?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. "I'm not ashamed."

"That's half my job done, then," Dr. Reed says with a laugh. "Is there anything specific you want to work on during our phone calls?"

"Yes. As a result of my—incarceration, I've formed an unhealthy attachment to my best friend, John."

"What do you mean by _unhealthy_?"

Sherlock explains the _incident_ the night he came home, and his terrible blunder the next day when he told John he was in love with him.

"I've known for three years that John was attracted to me, but he always stridently denied being gay. Technically, he's bisexual, not gay, but anyway, he was dating another man and he told his—boyfriend about this—what had happened between John and myself and it resulted in the end of their relationship, and John blames me. He's also, rightfully so, angry at me for faking my death and then keeping him in the dark for eighteen months. Our friendship is in danger because of this—inappropriate attachment."

"I can't cure you from being in love, Sherlock," Dr. Reed says.

"I'm _not_ in love with him," Sherlock says, making a noise of frustration. "That's my _point_ . I only _think_ I'm in love with him because what happened to me in Serbia left me feeling very—needy."

"Sherlock, look—I'm here to talk about what happened in Serbia, and to help you deal with the issues you'll face trying to return to a city that thought you were dead. And, although we'll cover relationships—including flat mates, best mates, lovers, and random citizens—if I underwent a _significantly_ invasive vetting process and was read in on some frankly _unbelievable_ James Bond-esque adventures because you want to blame PTSD for wanting to get a leg over your flatmate, you are taking the piss—the very _expensive_ piss, mind you—and need to get yourself a new therapist."

Sherlock is struck momentarily dumb, stunned by the way he has been relegated to the same realm as that type of desperate woman who reads articles in ladies' magazines with titles such as _Three Steps for Seducing Your Man!_

Then Sherlock's mind gains its equilibrium, and he surges to his feet while drawing in a deep breath. He hasn't planned these words, and they've never been put together in quite this same way, but Dr. Andy Reed has just blundered into a tripwire in Sherlock's psyche that apparently protects not just himself, but John as well, from insults to their mutual affections.

"There will _never_ be a time in my life when John Watson is someone to _get a leg over_ as you so quaintly put it," Sherlock says with enough scorn to melt Dr. Reed's face off. "John Watson is _everything_ I never knew I wanted. John Watson carries the embodiment of courage and loyalty in every single one of the one hundred and sixty-nine centimeters that make up his deceptively ordinary person.

"I, on the other hand, am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. And, yet, the bravest, and kindest, and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing, has redeemed me by the warmth and constancy of his friendship.

"So, when I say that I have formed an _unhealthy_ attachment to my best friend, I mean that I have become a hindrance to his happiness, and while happiness is not a state I attempt to achieve on anything like a regular basis, I would do anything within my power to ensure John's happiness."

Sherlock says the last few words so quietly they're almost a whisper. He comes out of his panegyric to find himself sitting against the headboard of his old bed, holding a pillow against his stomach as though it's a trauma dressing and he'll bleed out if he lets it go. It's an apt analogy now that he's thinking about it.

"That was quite a speech," Dr. Reed says, sounding wholly unimpressed. "And I think I might even be persuaded to believe that a few of the things you said were true. For the most part, though, it was utter tosh."

"I beg your pardon!" Sherlock snaps, bristling with indignation.

"Sherlock, PTSD doesn’t make you _think_ you’re in love with someone. If anything, sufferers of PTSD think they’re not _worthy_ of love, whether from friends, family, or best friends. You said you've known he was attracted to you for three years, implying that he's been pining for you, but you also used the same language as a wronged partner—you said he was dating _another_ man, not _a_ man or _that_ man, but _another,_ which implies that you and John had a romantic relationship before you faked your death— _or,_ that you assumed you were an exception to his _strident heterosexuality_ , as you put it.

"Which is more probable—that your sexual advances have nothing to do with jealousy, but a so-called _need for safety_ , as you put it, brought on by your PTSD; or that you've been in love with him all along, but you're terrified he won't love you back, so now you're trying to build a defense against what you perceive as rejection on his part.

"It sounds to me like you're hurt, deeply so, because your bloke had the audacity to get over you after he thought you'd died, and you're heartbroken. You sacrificed yourself for his safety, and came home to find he'd left you behind. You can’t blame PTSD for being in love with John. What you _can_ blame on PTSD, is feeling unworthy, and unlovable. Of feeling like you're _so bad_ that nobody good could ever love you. You've been through an experience probably nobody else you know will ever understand. You've been violated physically and emotionally. Being a genius doesn't preclude you from the negative results of that.

"So, tell me, Sherlock—what are you _really_ afraid of?"

~*~

John checks his mobile at least once an hour throughout the day, but Sherlock never texts back. Despite his anger at Sherlock, and the bitter end to his relationship with Gerald, John loves Sherlock more than he's ever loved anyone in his life. Gerald was right—the minute Sherlock walked in the door that night, his relationship with Gerald was over.

In fact, John loves Sherlock with a passion so fierce, it frightens him. Even though his heart is still tender in the wake of his breakup, John _knows_ he wouldn't be able to stop himself if Sherlock initiated another sexual encounter, and that's the last thing Sherlock needs. What Sherlock _needs_ is a therapist because, other than the day after he came home, he refuses to talk to John about what happened in Serbia, and John knows for a fact that Mycroft has repeatedly broached the subject.

Right as John reaches into his locker in the doctor's lounge to grab his bag and jacket, he gets a text from Sherlock that leaves him staring at his phone, his mouth hanging slightly open in a way Sherlock would have pointed out with blistering disdain if he'd been there.

_I'm going to bed early. Please don't knock on my door. –SH_

~*~

When John gets home that night, the flat feels empty the way it used to after Sherlock died, and John experiences a flash of vertigo trying to collate what John knows intellectually— _Sherlock is alive_ —with how the quiet flat makes him feel— _Sherlock is dead_.

Despite Sherlock's request, John runs up the stairs to the second floor bedroom, and opens it without even bothering to knock. He finds Sherlock huddled in the corner of the bed, against the wall, with his knees drawn up, and looking miserable. He looks like he's been hit with the flu, and John is immediately on alert.

"What's wrong? Are you sick?" John asks, even as he's climbing onto the bed, one hand trapping Sherlock's wrist to check his pulse, the other hand slipping inside Sherlock's shirt to feel the temperature of his skin.

Sherlock lets out an undignified squeak and tries to wriggle his way out of John's hold. "Go away!" he finally shouts. "I'm _fine!"_

John pulls away, looking at Sherlock skeptically, but Sherlock just glares back and says _I'm fine_ again.

"Can we talk?" John asks, collapsing on the bed, the wall at his back, and Sherlock to his left. He draws his knees up and rests his arms on them, his hands hanging loosely.

"There's nothing to talk about," Sherlock says, getting up off the bed. He goes to stand by the desk, looking out of the small window, his arms crossed, his body-language screaming _Go. Away._

"Yes, there is actually," John says, a nervous flutter in his belly that signals _hot sex ahead!_ His brain immediately puts up stop signs and barriers _no there's not!_

"If this is about last night, I apologize for my outburst. There, now you can leave," Sherlock says without looking at John.

"You know," John says conversationally. "I can't remember the last time I told you that you were wrong. Can you?"

Sherlock turns his face, his glittering eyes narrowed and fixed on John's. "I'm never wrong," he says.

"Well, there's a first time for everything!" John says cheerfully. "Because _you're wrong_."

"About what?" Sherlock asks, drawn in despite himself.

John holds onto the moment a little longer than he knows he should because this will probably be the only chance in his lifetime that he can _prove_ Sherlock wrong, but then he can't wait any longer.

"I do want you," John says, and waits.

"What do you mean, _you do want me_?" Sherlock asks, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in confusion and irritation.

"You said last night that all this time, you thought I didn't want you because you were a man when it turns out I just didn't want _you_ ," John says, keeping his body language open, and unthreatening. "And I'm saying _you're wrong_ because I _do_ want you."

John sees the hope blossom in Sherlock's eyes before he squashes it down with another furrow of his brow. "Well, of course, you're _sexually_ attracted—"

"Nope," John says, interrupting him. He shakes his head back and forth slowly while staring at the ceiling. "C'mon, Sherlock, put those mad deductive skills to work."

"What about Gerald?" Sherlock says, bringing his shoulders up in a half shrug, half arrested lunge for the bed. "You've been despondent ever since."

"Yep," John says. "It's sad, breaking up with someone you care about. It'll be a long time before we can repair our friendship."

"But if it weren't for me, you would still be with him!" Sherlock says, throwing his arms out in frustration. He moves closer to the bed, and John thinks _c'mon, that's it._

"No, see _that's_ where you're wrong—technically that's _twice_ you've been wrong, and in one day, too!"

John feels like a bit of an arsehole for the way he's going about this, but Sherlock needs to be drawn in, made to see his own error. That's the only way he'll believe it.

"Well, when you told him about our—wait," Sherlock says slowly, creeping closer to the bed, eyes hooded like they were when he was seeing the things nobody else could. " _He_ wanted to work things out, didn't he? But _you_ said no. Why'd you say no?" Sherlock kneels on the bed and looms over John.

"Because it turns out, you see, that I'd never stopped being madly and utterly in love with _you_."

" _John_ ," Sherlock says with such painful yearning that John feels it in the back of his teeth, and along the edges of his shoulders, a shivery feeling. "You _told_ me I'd sabotaged your relationship! That's what you said!"

"I know, and I was wrong. Wrong to blame you, and wrong to throw it in your face. I'm sorry."

Sherlock gingerly works his way onto the bed, sitting next to John with his back to the wall. "So you're in love with me?"

"Yes, that's pretty much the whole of it."

 

Sherlock reaches for John and John allows himself to be pulled into Sherlock's arms. He settles between Sherlock's thighs, his back to Sherlock's front, and Sherlock brings his heels up and tucks them between John's knees, while his arms pin John against him.

"Say it," Sherlock whispers, his lips against the nape of John's neck.

"You're wrong," John says, then erupts in laughter until Sherlock pinches his hip.

"No, the other thing," Sherlock says, with a tremor in his voice.

"I love you," John says.

"Again."

"I. Love. You."

" _Again_."

"You're. A giant. Prat."

Sherlock gives a particularly long and melodramatic noise of irritation, sounding like a cat trying to cough up a furball.

"So, do you love me back?" John asks, twining his fingers through Sherlock's.

"Yes."

"Well, then, there you go. That's where we start from. All right?"

"Yes," Sherlock says slowly, sniffing sweetly at the skin behind John's ear. "All right."

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

"I need a shower and food, and then we need to talk," John says, wiggling his way out of Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock groans and slumps against the headboard in annoyance. " _Must_ we? What more needs to be said?"

"C'mon, Sherlock, you know it's not that simple," John says, scooting to the edge of the bed before getting to his feet with a weary groan. "We can't just jump into bed together."

"If you hadn't just gotten _out_ of the bed, you'd have no need to be jumping back _in_ , would you?" Sherlock says flatly.

"Oh, ha ha," John deadpans with a pointed look. "Look, I just don't think we're ready to have sex."

Sherlock grabs a pillow and props it behind his head. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, suddenly exhausted. His eyes prick with tears.

He needs to get out of the flat, to work. He needs John, to be _touched_ by John, _(to be loved by John),_ to feel like going through hell counts as something to John, even though it meant losing Gerald.

Sherlock presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to staunch the tears his traitorous body seems determined to spew out every time he allows himself to _feel_. He's perpetually dehydrated by the amount of tears he sheds.

(Another gem of Dr. Reed's— _if you feel like crying, go find a private place to do it, and let yourself go. It's like pushing a reset button. Your body is trying to release endorphins, trying to help you overcome the pain. Your brain doesn't know that it's not literal pain, only that you're hurting, and crying will help. You value your mind so highly, so stop getting in the way of your fucking brain trying to heal it.)_

Sherlock isn't particularly thrilled about being in therapy, but he recognizes the need for someone like Dr. Reed to aid in his recovery. He hated every second of the way therapy made him feel today—like he was split open, every insecurity and fear on exhibit.

 _("If you hate therapy, Sherlock,"_ said Dr. Reed after Sherlock said something to that effect that morning. _"Then you're doing it right.")_

Sherlock feels the bed dip as John sits down near him, and that makes Sherlock's face scrunch up with the effort to keep the tears at bay until he can be alone _(hide away)_ and let his body push the reset button. (For the third time today). He can practically _taste_ the concern coming off of John, and in another life he would've sneered at it.

In this life, though, the concern breaks through some of the wall Sherlock is trying to erect to keep John from seeing him cry. It's bad enough that Sherlock spilled all that shit out last night. John already thinks he's broken. He doesn't need any more proof.

John settles his hand on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock's heart cracks open. The blackness seeps out, every dark bit of it. He closes his eyes against the rush of emotions.

"I don't want to _talk_ anymore!" Sherlock growls, pushing himself to his knees, and then launches off the bed, and begins to pace. "I want to touch you, and I want you to touch me! It's no longer enough to hear you say you're in love with me, John. I know—well, I can't actually know, personally, what you've given up for me, but I do know that I can't keep paying for the choice I made. I would do it all over again. I would burn my way through the world for you, John! Are those the actions of an unfeeling machine, a man who doesn't know how to love? It does actually hurt, you know—being home finally, having survived, being in your bed every night, my arms wrapped around you, and yet you might as well be halfway across the world again, for all the hope it gives me."

He stops at the window, pauses a moment, trying to rein in his feelings, and finding he can't, not anymore. He feels as fragile and unsure as he did the first night home, when desperation and relief made him take John in hand, knowing it would be the only time John would allow him to break the rules without paying for it later. Oh, but he has after all, hasn't he? Paid for it?

"You think breaking up with Gerald was easy?" John says, his voice rising towards a shout. "Now the obstacle has been overcome and we can fall in bed together, _oh, and by the way, do you prefer to top or bottom_? I feel like I don't know you anymore! I keep expecting you to suddenly wake up as your old self, and then I'll be relegated to the sidekick position again. What happens when you're taking cases again, when you have your puzzles and mysteries to solve?"

"You have no idea how much I want you," Sherlock says, his voice hoarse with frustration and desire. "And just so we're clear, you were _never_ just my sidekick. You have always been my _partner_ , and I want that with you in every sense of the word."

"I don't know how to trust you," John says, and pulls his lips in over his teeth. He shakes his head, and Sherlock watches in dismay as John gets off the bed and makes for the door.

"You wanted me to find a therapist? Well, I did—Mycroft did." Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "I spent hours on the phone today with my new therapist _talking_ about my _experience_ —" The word is spit out of his mouth, a bad taste he can never really rinse away. "Having my psyche picked apart. I assure you, Dr. Reed is not that same gentle breed of therapist as yours. He's ruthless. I've been splayed open. I'm _exhausted_." His breath hitches, and he tries to swallow, but can't. Panic almost sets in, as he wills his throat to do its job. Finally, it does, and he drags in a shuddering breath. He points an accusing finger at John, who flinches slightly even though Sherlock is across the room. "And I've spent twenty-four hours thinking that—" Sherlock hauls in a painful lungful of air, "—thinking that you didn't love me after all, and trying to find a reason to go on anyway.

"You have always walked the fence between being a _good_ boy, and wanting to be a _bad_ boy—the _bit not good_ boy. I won't walk that line with you, John. I _refuse_ to. I pander to clients and the public at large—I have allowed Mycroft to lock me away in the flat, to let the members of New Scotland Yard, and shadowy government agencies have control of my so-called return to polite society, have agreed to be imprisoned in my _own home_ after thirty days of imprisonment in a freezing Serbian cell, and all of it— _all of it!_ —for you! If it were just me, do you think I would _care_ about my fucking reputation? If it were just me, as much as I love London, there are other cities in the world who could use my particular talents."

"You've always just taken what you wanted. Why am I any different?" John says with a pained, disbelieving laugh. He throws his arms wide in challenge, and then brings his hands in to tap roughly at his chest. "You want me? Well, here I am! Take me!"

That draws Sherlock up short, and for a moment his face echoes his hesitance, but then he takes three long steps, wraps his fingers around John's precious head, and captures John's bottom lip between his own.

_We are evolutionarily and psycho-socially designed to enjoy kissing._

Sherlock's tongue slips just inside the heat of John's mouth, sliding along the inside of his teeth, down the smooth, wet skin of his cheek before their tongues catch on each other. John's fists his left hand in Sherlock's white button down, and his other hand plows through Sherlock's still-too-short hair. Sherlock drags his hands down John's sides, and around to the small of his back, and lets the fingers of his right hand flirt with the edge of John's scrub bottoms.

_There are up to eighty billion bacteria that can be passed between two people sharing a kiss._

Sherlock has never particularly liked the intimacy of kissing. But _John_ —it seems as though Sherlock has thought of nothing else for days, that maybe if he added up all the time over the last three years he looked at or remembered John's thin, quick to grin lips, he would discover that weeks of his life have been devoted to nothing else.

_Despite the fact that we kiss with our mouths, our sense of smell is stimulated more during a kiss than our sense of taste._

John comes home carrying the scent of London with him, the smell of hospital, the Tube, blood, exhaust. He usually showers as soon as he gets home, but Sherlock prefers John like this—smelling of the city they love, the heartbeat they share—and from this moment on, the memory of this, their first _true_ kiss, will always flutter in his consciousness with the first breath he takes outside.

_Even light stimulation of the lips releases dopamine, serotonin, norepinephrine, and oxytocin, and causes adrenaline levels to spike as well._

Their kiss quickly descends into a frantic clash of teeth and tongue while their hands grip, and stroke, trying to delete any space between their bodies. In one whirling motion, Sherlock turns them around, drops to the bed, and tugs John onto his lap, his knees on either side of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock reaches down and unties John's scrub bottoms, then slips his hand inside, his eyes never leaving John's face.

 _"Fuck,"_ John gasps when Sherlock drags his knuckles lightly along his erection. " _Christ_ , I thought you'd be—"

_The lips have more nerve endings than the female clitoris and the male frenulum._

"You thought I'd be—" Sherlock prompts. He opens his mouth against the underside of John's exposed jaw, poised as though to bite down, but instead he just scissors his teeth up the edge of John's jawbone, until he nibbles against the skin beneath John's ear.

John shivers, and does the little head shake again. "Virginal, I guess. Inexperienced."

"No," Sherlock chuckles darkly. "Quite experienced. Would you like to hear all the filthy things I want to do to you?"

John licks his lips and nods. Sherlock sucks on John's throat and continues to lightly tease John's cock with his fingers as he speaks.

"I want to work lube into your hole, opening it up for me so that when I breach your body, you can hear the slick squelch as my cock stretches the walls of your rectum, making way for me. I love a slow, filthy fuck, to make it last long enough that we need another round of lube. I want to bend you in half, and fuck you so hard that a grunt is forced out of you every time I drive my hips forward and split your body with my cock."

Sherlock slides his hands slowly inside the back of John's scrubs and digs his fingers into John's arse, spreading his cheeks slightly when he pulls John roughly into him. John groans, and widens his legs eagerly. Sherlock raises his hips up to grind his pelvis against John's. They both moan, and Sherlock whispers _fuck_ three times, his eyes slipping shut with pleasure, willing himself not to throw John onto his knees and fuck him. John's tongue licks over Sherlock's Adam's apple, and he gasps.

"What else?" John murmurs against Sherlock's throat.

"I want to undress you slowly, my lips, and tongue, and teeth working their way from your mouth down to your neck, and then your chest, but no lower, at least not yet. I'll use the time spent undressing you to pour my love for you into every kiss and caress. When you try to hurry things along, I'll slow you down, but when I finally remove our clothes, it won't be love I'm thinking of. Our height difference makes it too unwieldy for me to take you on your hands and knees, but I'll work you open in that position, and then I'll lie down on my back, and watch you pant and grunt and wince at the burn as you work yourself down onto my cock. I'll let you set the pace at first, but then I'll put my feet flat on the bed, grasp one half of your arse in each hand, and thrust myself into you, spreading your arse cheeks so I can get in as deep as possible. You'll come first, and then I'll pull out and roll you back onto your hands and knees, and make you spread yourself open for me, and you will, even though it means your face is smashed uncomfortably into the mattress. When you've got them spread as wide as you can, I'll jack myself while staring at your hole, the rim red and puffy and slightly gaping, aiming my dick so that when I come, I'll paint your hole with my semen. I'll make you keep yourself spread open so I can watch my cum drip from your arsehole to your balls, and then I'll lick it off, balls first before burying my face between your cheeks to make sure I lick you clean."

" _Jesus_ ," John moans.

Sherlock hums deep in his chest. For a moment, they're content to kiss and rock their pelvises together, but after a while, it stops being enough and starts feeling uncomfortable. 

“I hate to break the mood, but I have to get my trousers off or my cock is going to be permanently damaged by my zipper," Sherlock says, sucking in a breath through his teeth when John bites his lip and grinds down several more times, drawing heavy groans out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock glares at him, and John laughs, then rolls off of Sherlock. By the time, Sherlock has stood up, and unzipped his trousers, John has shimmied his way out of his scrubs, and has his thumbs hooked in his pants. Sherlock surges forward to stop him.

"Not yet," he says absently, his trousers momentarily forgotten as his eyes roam over John's body before lifting them back to John's face. Sherlock takes off his own clothes with quick efficiency. He leaves his pants on, and climbs onto the bed next to John.

"Tell me what you want," Sherlock says, lowering his head to lick along the waistband of John's pants. "You can have anything you want from me."

"How are your ribs?" John asks, slightly breathless.

Sherlock dips his tongue inside John's pants and tongues the hole at the top of John's penis, then swirls once around his glans. John's hips lift up off the bed. Sherlock sits back and opens his mouth to speak.

"Don't lie to me," John says gravely. "I expect you to keep the promise you made not to lie to me."

Sherlock sighs in annoyance. "They ache," he admits reluctantly.

"Thought so. And you can't hold yourself above me for long with that shoulder, either."

Sherlock makes a dismissive sound, but nods in acknowledgement, before sitting down next to John. "You can fuck me on my back. Or I can be on top."

"That's not—I'm not comfortable having anal sex with you. Just yet," says John with a grimace.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, genuinely confused. Then he realizes what John's talking about, and scrubs his face with his hands. "Right."

"I just don't want to trigger any—"

"I understand," Sherlock rushes to say. And he does understand, but he doesn't have to like it.

John gets to his knees and sits back on his heels. His erection is a fat bulge at the front of his dark grey pants.

"Besides, what I really want to do is suck you," John says, his eyes dark with lust. A blush stains his ears, and spreads down to his face and chest. "And then I want you to come on my face."

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry, his heart kicks up a dozen extra beats per minute, and his mind fizzles pathetically. He is adept at talking dirty, and has been the recipient of it as well, but he's never heard anything as erotic as John Watson telling him, _And then I want you to come on my face._

"Oh. Hm. Ah, hm," he says, and then rolls his eyes at his own stuttering stupidity. He’s always assumed sex with John would incapacitate his higher powers of thought, but he hadn't considered it would reduce him to a pre-verbal state.

John smirks and raises his eyebrow as he gets off the bed. "The condoms are downstairs," he says.

"Of course," Sherlock says, nodding his head aggressively, his cheeks flushing slightly in embarrassment. His one month blood panel has come back clean, but John is well within his rights to request condoms for as long as he needs to feel safe. It still stings, though, and reminds him unhappily of the reason why they're needed in the first place.

"Sherlock," John says, stopping half in and half out of Sherlock's bedroom door, his hand on the door jamb. "I want so much to feel you in my mouth without a latex barrier."

"It's fine, John," Sherlock says with feigned boredom.

"Yes, but nonetheless," John says. Then he nods, slaps the door jamb once in a very masculine way, and disappears down the hall.

Sherlock can hear him moving quickly down the narrow back stairs, what was a servants' staircase when the house was built. It was walled off sometime in the 1960s, but he had it opened back up shortly after John moved in with him so that John didn't have to traipse down the main stairs in his robe and slippers every morning. He said he worried Mrs. Hudson would pop out of her flat and get an eyeful of his _meat and two veg_ if she looked up. Sherlock had snorted at John's description of his penis in terms of food, but found it secretly endearing, and a very middle-class thing to say.

John pounds back up the stairs and down the hall. "Condoms!" he crows triumphantly, and throws the box on the bed.

Sherlock picks it up, and turns it over in his hands. "These are for oral sex."

"Ye-es," John says, eyebrows lifted in a question.

"I, um, so you bought these with me in mind?" Sherlock asks, waiting for John to sneer and say _obviously,_ and he rushes to speak. "I meant, you wouldn't have been comfortable having unprotected sex with me—including oral—until my three month blood panel came back, which means you bought these assuming we would be having sex soon."

"Well, within the next two months," John says, his lips tipping up on one side. Sherlock can see him holding in his amusement.

"So, even though you were _grieving_ over, um—" Sherlock makes a vague spinning gesture with his hand.

"Gerald," John provides, no longer trying to hide his amusement.

"Yes. Yes, thank you. So, you in fact—"

"Yes, Sherlock," John says, trying to school his features into something more solemn and failing miserably. "Despite everything standing in our way, I'd hoped to get my lips wrapped around your knob sooner or later, preferably sooner."

"Oh," Sherlock says, sitting up straighter, pleased with himself, though there isn't a logical reason to be.

"Did you think I didn't want you?" John asks, his voice no longer laughing, his brows drawing together in puzzlement.

"I didn't think you wanted me _now_ , I mean not—not _now_ , as in today, because obviously you want me _now_. I just thought, you didn't want me _yet_. Before today."

"Sherlock," John says softly, shaking his head slightly as he sits on the bed next to him. He takes the box of condoms out of Sherlock's unresisting hands, and takes both of his hands so all four are wrapped up together. "I've never stopped wanting you, no more than I stopped loving you. In fact, I've had to remind myself many times of your injuries so that I could maintain the proper distance, not just as your doctor, but because you're always so deceptively self-assured. And then, also, like I said—breaking up with Gerald was hard, but it's not stopped me wanting you."

Sherlock, feeling lighter, but still deeply touched, ducks his head and swallows back the emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. It was illogical to assume John felt otherwise, and yet Sherlock had, spending the last month feeling like a cold, distant moon orbiting a bright star, never getting closer, just spinning uselessly around.

John puts the box of condoms behind them on the bed, and slides to the floor on his knees. Sherlock's lost more than half of his erection during the past ten minutes, but the sight of John kneeling between his legs is enough to remind his brain where to shunt some blood.

John keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock and gradually leans forward, letting his tongue slip out of his mouth incrementally, wetting his lips, reminding Sherlock of a slow motion film. Sherlock's hips strain upward even though he's gripping the mattress and imagining his arse sinking into it, in order to avoid smacking John in the face with his clothed erection.

John trails his nose down Sherlock's cock through his pants, burying his nose into the crease of Sherlock's thigh. He closes his eyes, and pulls in a deep, shuddering inhalation, moaning hoarsely. Sherlock's mouth falls open, and something shockingly like a whimper escapes him. John chuckles breathily and then uses the flat of his tongue to move even further down, against the underside of Sherlock's balls, and then he licks back up between them, and then around each individual testicle, and finally up to the root of his cock. Sherlock's breathing is uneven, and his knuckles ache from digging his hands into the mattress. His arse cheeks are clenched tightly together. In fact, his whole body is wound tight as a spring. John stiffens his tongue and brushes it in a zigzag pattern all the way up to the tip of Sherlock's penis, which he suckles gently through the damp cotton of Sherlock's pants.

Sherlock considers sending Gerald a bouquet of flowers, because no matter how jealous of the man he's been (and he has been _so_ jealous), he can't help but feel deeply grateful to Gerald for teaching John how to suck cock. The entirety of the front of Sherlock's pants is soaked with John's saliva. A breathy, barely-there moan rides each of Sherlock's exhales. He's so embarrassingly close to finishing, and he hasn't even taken off his pants! He tries to remember the last time he had an orgasm, and vaguely recalls several nights of debauchery in Abu Dhabi about nine months ago. Surely, he brought himself off at some point in the intervening time, but he honestly can't recall. Once he entered eastern Europe, it was night after day after night of little sleep, food snatched and eaten on the go, contacts and safe houses increasingly few and far between until the thirteenth of February when—

"Look. At. Me."

John's voice has the power of a slap in the face to drag Sherlock back to the present, and Sherlock does exactly as John says—he looks. John slips his hand into Sherlock's pants and readjusts his erection so that it lies up against his stomach, and then puts Sherlock's pants to rights, leaving the head of his erection exposed. There's something obscene about having just the tip of it exposed, but then John pulls the leg opening of Sherlock's pants to the side, and gently tugs one testicle out through the opening, and gives new meaning to _obscene_. He rocks back on his heels, and smiles at Sherlock, preening.

"I'm tempted to take a snap with my phone," John says, absently running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip.

Sherlock starts to say something sarcastic such as _you know, smoldering gazes do not actually cause spontaneous orgasm in the recipient_ but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is a croak, and he gives up trying to speak in favor of encouraging his mouth to produce enough saliva to wet his parched throat.

Apparently done admiring his handiwork at Sherlock's groin, John reaches behind him and snags the box of condoms. He opens the box, and pulls out a strip, rips one off, and peels it open. Then, to Sherlock's confusion, pops it into his mouth, where it disappears. He leans forward, and pulls back the waistband of Sherlock's pants, takes the head of Sherlock's penis between thumb and forefinger, and his mouth takes Sherlock down all the way to his balls in one tight, smooth motion. Sherlock yelps and his hips thrust up slightly before John holds them down. It's only when John bobs back up does Sherlock realize what happened to the condom.

"Neat," Sherlock groans, his voice almost unrecognizable. "The thing with the— _ahem_ —condom."

John smiles around Sherlock's dick, which is stained green through the thin material of the condom, and Sherlock wants to make a zombie joke, but John's tongue is somehow working its way underneath Sherlock's foreskin _through_ the condom, and the ephemerous thought is discarded by his brain as being unimportant. In fact, his brain is rapidly shedding all coherent thought not related to John, John's mouth, and what John and his mouth are doing to Sherlock's dick.

"I'm not—" _going to last long_ , Sherlock tries to say, but it's lost in a groan as John pulls the waistband of his pants under his balls, and then sucks each testicle into his mouth, poking his tongue at them, a vulgar bulge in his cheek. _That's my nut_ , Sherlock thinks and tries not to laugh hysterically.

John looks up at Sherlock, his eyes dark and wet, his lips swollen, saliva trailing from his mouth to Sherlock's sheathed cock and back to John's chin in a skinny triangle of spit that catches the light, and Sherlock has a brief vision of John wearing nothing but Sherlock's Belstaff and red high heels, but his brain gets rid of that thought, too, as Sherlock's orgasm begins to gather in his groin. He recalls John's request that Sherlock come on his face, but in an uncharacteristic fit of shyness, decides not to remind him.

John, it turns out, needs no reminding. He yanks the condom off of Sherlock's cock, flicks it onto the floor, and then takes it in hand, his thumb and forefinger teasing Sherlock's foreskin. Sherlock's toes begin to curl, and his arse clenches, while his hips try to thrust his cock into a nonexistent hole. John sits back on his knees, tilts his face up to the ceiling, exposing the whole long column of his throat, and his thumb and forefinger go up, down, up again, and _twist_ , and Sherlock bows forward with the force of his orgasm.

John closes his eyes and lips, and blindly seeks Sherlock's penis, and Sherlock cries out at the sight of John trying to position his face to catch Sherlock's cum. His body convulses, and the almost violent power of the orgasm tears through his nervous system. He shoots semen onto John's nose and cheek, then chin, throat, and the last sputtering dribbles land on his chest.

Sherlock realizes he's chanting a combination of _John_ and _ohmygod_ and _oh fuck_ over and over again, his body shuddering with a pleasure so extreme it almost feels as though it's happening to someone else. John opens his eyes, and looks up at Sherlock. A drop of cum slips off his chin, and Sherlock stares at his gorgeous _face_ , and realizes he needs to kiss him _right fucking now_ , so he lowers his head to do so.

John reaches up, grinning with pride, semen sliding down his cheek to meet up with the bit on his chin, and puts his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. He pulls, guiding Sherlock down into the kiss, but when Sherlock feels the pressure on the back of his head, he stiffens abruptly, every muscle seizing, fear rocketing along his nerves and obliterating the warm pleasure that came before it.

For one shivering moment, Sherlock holds onto reality by trying to tip his consciousness over and into the warmth of John's eyes, whose eyebrows have just drawn together in confusion before he and everything around him blinks out of existence to be replaced with cold concrete, a sinister voice, and terror made all the more razor sharp by the joy and love that went before it.

~*~

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag for description of PTSD flashback

Sherlock stiffens almost as soon as John lays his hand on the back of his neck. John's mind and body are moving slow and heavy with lust, and it seems like there's a moment when John could have stopped the flashback by removing his hand, but the time between realizing what he needs to do and executing the action might as well be none at all. John yanks his hand back, but he's already lost Sherlock.

Sherlock is shaking—John watches dumbly, overwhelmed by the nerve-jangling, gut-punch switch from hot sex to nightmare.

For ninety seconds, he watches Sherlock, but Sherlock's eyes stare right through him, even though they appear to be tracking something behind him, and John turns around as though something is actually _there_ , still half-convinced he's imagining things. Sherlock just _came_ , less than a minute ago, and John still as an _erection_ , for fuck's sake!

For ninety seconds, John watches as Sherlock pulls his lips in over his teeth, and it's not until later, when red tinged saliva is dripping from his mouth to his chin that John realizes Sherlock has bitten deep into the flesh of the inside of his lips. John hasn't seen a flashback like this—not this rigid, bone-grinding terror, the absolutely still way Sherlock holds his body while still shaking hard enough for his teeth to chatter, as though he's trying to hide himself _(like a small, wounded thing)_ . Suddenly his head jerks down, his shoulders hunched around his neck as though _(someone is holding him down by the back of his neck oh my god)_ and John's gut twists and he thinks _ninety seconds makes the difference between life and death_ and manages to grab the bin under the desk and duck his head inside before he vomits.

Something besides nausea sits heavy and _wrong_ in his gut. In Afghanistan, on the streets of London, at the pool with Moriarty, John did not/would not/would not have _ever_ hesitated for ninety fucking seconds. For all intents and purposes, this man is his responsibility, and he has just left him open and vulnerable on the battlefield for _ninety fucking seconds_ , watching—stupid and paralyzed—as Sherlock's reality shatters around him. Sherlock looks feral, snarling, hunched into himself, defiance and terror cozy bedfellows in his eyes, like they're _used_ to being there, like being terrified is a natural state of being. And it is _not_ a natural state of being, not for Sherlock, no—not anymore.

That's when Captain John Watson lurches to his feet, pulls on his discarded scrub bottoms, uses Sherlock's shirt to wipe Sherlock's cum off his face, and turns on the overhead light, the other lamp, and opens the door, and then _slams_ it as hard as he can. (And hopes to hell Mrs. Hudson does not come up here _to find out what you boys are getting up to_.)

It takes fourteen seconds from the moment that John gets to his feet to the moment he slams the door, and then he is standing in front of Sherlock, and he's doing the only thing he can think to do. If this evil memory is strong enough to capture Sherlock in its grip, then John's grip will be stronger. This man is his responsibility. This man is _his_.

 _"Holmes, you will stand at attention in the presence of your commanding officer!"_ he bellows. _"You will get to your feet this instant!"_

John's body eases into this skin the way he used to ease his way into a woman's body, the way he used to ease his hand into someone's guts to save their life because it was what he _did_ . It was all he knew. _This_ , his body says, _is what we know how to do when ninety seconds is the difference between life and death._

"John, _run_ , he's behind you, and I'm broken too tired and sad to save you." Sherlock's voice wavers, thick and foggy, and John sees the streamers of bloody saliva that bubble up out of Sherlock's lips as his voice shivers and jumps and his body shakes, and John wants to kneel in front of Sherlock, and pull him into his arms, and brush his thick, beautiful hair off his beautiful, gorgeous, sweaty forehead, and wipe the bloody saliva away with gentle fingers, and hold him in his arms, and rock him, because this man is _his_. But—it is the absolute last fucking thing that will help.

"There will be no running away. Now, I told you to stand _so why are you still sitting on your arse, soldier?_ " John's voice rises out of him on flames, and his throat burns, and his heart burns, and his eyes burn, and moisture drips onto John's cheeks.

Sherlock's eyes lift to John's face, and John's knees almost buckle with relief at seeing the recognition there, and now the urge to hold Sherlock is even stronger, but he can't, not yet.

"John," Sherlock murmurs weakly, his teeth clicking together, so that John's name comes out sounding _Jawv-va-vah-van_.

"I told you to stand. Can you?" John asks, firmly, but gently.

Sherlock's shivering so bad that when he shakes his head it isn't immediately evident, but when it is, John says, "Well, then. I'll just have to carry you downstairs."

"N-n-n-no," Sherlock says. "Kah-kah-can in m-m-moment. Si-si-sit. Puh-please."

The _please_ tacked on the end, like he needs to _ask_ John to sit with him while he gets his legs under himself after reliving being raped in a Serbian prison in the middle of winter, puts a crack in John's glued-together heart.

John says, "Okay," managing not to sound like he's crying (though he is, shamelessly). "I'm going to cover you up with this duvet behind you, look at my hands, see? They're moving behind you, and this duvet right here—look, Sherlock, please—okay it's coming up behind you now, over your shoulders, and there you go." John crouches in front of him, tucking the duvet in, only letting himself stay connected to Sherlock through a single point of contact—his hand cupped lightly against Sherlock's knee. (Like it fucking matters—like they aren't already connected at a cellular level, but it makes John feel better, dammit).

John knows this next part, because he's seen it after every flashback—the transition from threat-alert-maximum-red-blaring-klaxon-defcon-five-times-a-hundred, to _after_ , when Sherlock's neuro-hormonal levels bottom out, and he sinks into a sort of pliant lassitude, with a narrow window of maybe twenty minutes where he can still move under his own steam, but only just. This is, ironically, the time when John has to _hustle_ even though all he wants to do is sink down onto the bed with Sherlock and sleep for about a hundred and fifty fucking years, because after the transition window, Sherlock becomes semi-catatonic, as though everything is reaching him through several layers of reality and really fucking bad wi-fi, and once he catalogues the correct response/reaction, he has to send it back, and John can become a _slight_ bit impatient with the glacial progression of time during that part of the flashback recovery process.

John watches until Sherlock stops shaking, and then the dip of Sherlock's head, as he says _sorry_ in a very small voice, and John reacts so vehemently that alarm sparks in Sherlock's eyes, and John has to pull himself back and slow down and cool off.

"Don't ever—please," John says, swallowing around the great aching pain in his chest where another crack has appeared in his glued-together heart. "Do not _ever_ apologize to me for taking care of you. Yeah? Can you do that for me?"

Sherlock nods, and John sets the Transition Time countdown to twenty minus zero minutes and counting.

He gets Sherlock downstairs, and the both of them in the shower, and washes them clean of all the bodily fluids—blood, saliva, vomit, _semen_ . John washes Sherlock's hair because _(yes, okay, Gerald, turns out I_ do _have a hair kink)_ and he's wanted to wash this mad bastard's hair for about a million years, and he's damn well going to take advantage. A humming rumble starts in Sherlock's chest and vibrates against John's skin like pebbles falling against glass, and John thinks of a wiry, tetchy tomcat that comes around for five years, spitting and hissing every time you try to show it any affection before it lets you domesticate it, and then takes all of five minutes to become a lazy, fat housecat that sits in your lap and demands your attention every time you dare to look busy with something else.

 _That_ , John thinks, _is precisely what loving Sherlock feels like._

John gets them clean and dries them off. Looks at the inside of Sherlock's lips, and makes him brush his teeth even though Sherlock bitches and moans about it, which John pretends is all exaggerated, even though John knows it stings like hell. When John gives him a glass of water, Sherlock drinks it, but by the time they make it to the bedroom, both of them still naked, Sherlock collapses on the bed, and almost slides off before John catches him, his lower back straining with the effort to push Sherlock back off the edge. When John pushes himself to his feet, the muscles of his lower back feel like they're trying to strain the _opposite_ way, and John knows he won't be able to get around comfortably for a few days without cocodamol.

John hasn't even gotten them into pajamas, and he looks at his phone on the dresser, knowing it hasn't been twenty minutes yet, and sure enough—it's only been eleven. John looks back at the half-slumped, half-sitting form of Sherlock, and John thinks the fact that Sherlock had an orgasm, and _then_ had a flashback has really tapped out his body. John knows he'll call into work the next morning to stay home with Sherlock and keep an eye on him.

John chivvies and nags Sherlock into getting into a more comfortable sleeping position, and foregoes pajamas for the night. They're both exhausted, and it really feels like a stupid thing to be worried about. He slides into his side of the bed, and turns towards Sherlock to find Sherlock staring at him in an almost cartoonishly sappy way. There might be teddy bears with hearts for eyes dancing over his head. He tenderly caresses John's cheek, and murmurs something John thinks might be praise for his oral sex technique, but sounds like _speck-tackler head_ . It's this _so_ tender and sweet compliment from Sherlock, who nobody would believe capable of this kind of loving gesture, who _John_ once thought incapable, that puts the last crack in John's glued together heart, reminding him of how he felt when Sherlock first came home, in those moments when he could see that Sherlock felt a little dead inside, and tried so hard to mask it, and John felt so fucking helpless, he thought his chest might cave in, that it might be _literally_ unbearable to feel that helpless.

"Do you know how much I love you?" John asks softly. The stupid tears are back.

"Ye-es," Sherlock says, drawing the word out, emphasizing the _s_ sound. He smiles drunkenly, his eyes blinking long and slow, before drawling, " _Obviously_."

That drags a soggy chuckle out of John, and Sherlock's smile is soft and sweet and childishly pleased.

John's jaw clenches as he feels hurt trying to spill out of him and he tries to stop it, but it's already out. "I loved you, and you broke me when you left, and I glued myself back together, and then you came back, and broke me all over again, and now I don't work right without you,” John says softly, quickly, feeling feverish with exhaustion and too many goddamned feelings for one man to handle in the space of a few hours. "No, that's not—not true."

John can't hide from the truth that he stashed inside his heart before he glued it back together the first time, a million years ago, watching a gorgeous, brilliant, mad bastard throw himself off the roof of the hospital where John learned how to save people's lives. It's the same  truth that he felt a million years ago lying on Sherlock's grave (when he thought it was _actually_ Sherlock's grave) and wanted to lie there until he died, too, and his bones sank into the ground to lie with Sherlock's bones because he couldn't imagine trying to live with a Sherlock shaped wound in his world.

John looks at Sherlock looking softly, sleepily back, waiting for the truth.

"The truth is that I didn't work right until I met you, and maybe that's not what other people think about when they think of love, but I only work right when I'm with you, even when I want to throw you off a roof myself, and I couldn't possibly in a million years _not_ know how to love you forever."

"S'very kind of you t'say so," Sherlock says, his voice stretching the words out like taffy. His eyebrows go up and down as he tries, and fails, to keep his eyes open. John laughs weakly, knowing Sherlock won't remember his love confession, and that it's probably okay because John knows what's true, finally. The truth feels like kissing Sherlock, his tongue in Sherlock's mouth sliding together, literally hot and so fucking hot metaphorically. It feels like holding Sherlock's cock in his hand, the smooth, hot, soft, skin over hard, _hard_ blood and lust sliding into John's mouth. It feels like barking an order at Sherlock to bring him back to the Sherlock shaped space in John's bones where he _belongs_ , where he will be loved. It feels like home, and _right_ , and an awful lot like healing.

"Sleep, my love," John whispers, brushing away another round of tears off of his own face with a brisk swipe of the back of his hand, and then brushing sooty, damp curls off Sherlock's forehead.

"Closer," Sherlock rumbles.

"What?"

Sherlock's hand stretches out towards John's arm, and lands—warm and dry and alive _alive_ —and tugs. John's momentarily overwhelmed by uncertainty, lying naked in bed with the man he loves— _his_ man—with every last whatever-it's-worth piece of himself buried way down in Sherlock's bones. _I gave him really fantastic head, and he came, but then I touched his neck, and he had a flashback of being raped, but the cuddle was totally consensual, officer, I swear it!_ John thinks feverishly and giggles once, high and breathy.

Sherlock tugs again, and John follows, moving closer, then closer still until they're breathing each other's air, and Sherlock pats his arm.

"Sleep," Sherlock whispers, his eyes closed, his eyelashes making smudged shadows on his cheeks. "M'love."

John's breath catches painfully, and it's a long, long while before John stops breathing very carefully through his mouth, weeping as silently as he can, improbably joyful for a man with a broken heart. _No, not a broken heart,_ John realizes with a shuddering gasp of relief. _A broken_ open _heart_. Truth has escaped and is hell bent on running wild in John's life, and John will let it, he'll even help it wreak havoc. Tomorrow. A great, jaw-cracking yawn hits him over the head right before sleep steals what's left of the day away.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> To my always thoughtful betas, Jenn and Katie, who are ridiculously busy and still find time to read my stories. Thank you again and again.


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